The Muggleborn Conspiracy
by Soepkip
Summary: In an attempt to unbalance England's magical society, the goblins of Gringotts devised a most evil plot. By raising muggleborns, the most hated denizens of the magical community, to the highest possible station: that of the head of an important magical house. How? By fabricating claims to formerly extinct, excessively wealthy magical families. The result? Not what they expected.
1. Hermione, Justin and magical jewellery

**_Chapter One_**

 ** _Hermione, Justin and magical jewellery_**

"Congratulations Miss Granger," the strange, rather short banker (goblins, professor McGonagall had said they were called) called cheerfully in a rather high-pitched voice that sounded out of place coming from the rather gruff being. "A routine check has yielded profitable results, please follow my colleague, Ripbeak, to deal with your unexpected windfall."

Hermione and her rather befuddled parents were led through a maze-like hallway to a large, spacious office where an elderly goblin sat behind a desk. He was bald and wrinkly but had a most impressive, insanely long white beard that reached the floor. Ripbeak mentioned for them to enter before sketching a short bow and leaving.

The goblin behind the desk regarded them silently until they sat down in the trio of chairs placed in a half-circle in front of the wooden bureau.

"Miss Granger," he began, voice raspy and dry. "All new customers have their ancestry routinely checked for us at Gringotts to be able to see if they hold claim to vaults that belonged to magical families now extinct. When we delved through yours we found you are a relative of the last head of the Most Ancient house of Fawcett-Atterton."

A snap of his wrinkly fingers conjured a rather long, dusty scroll of parchment that hung in the air.

"The inheritance you stand to claim is impressive. Four inherited seats in the Winzengamot, an honorary position on the Hogwarts Board of Governors, a large manor house near Cambridge as well as several slightly smaller homes in Scotland, France, Italy and Austria. The family had no outstanding debts at the time they went extinct and the current amount of money in their vaults totals at close to seven-hundred and fifty thousand galleons. The possible value of the properties, jewellery, furniture and other assorted items currently in the vaults is not included but an estimate by our experts has that at perhaps equal to that of the galleons themselves, though buyers would need to be found for the more esoteric items."

"Which would be what, when converted to pounds? The amount of 'galleons'?" Mr. Granger asked, air quoting the unfamiliar word.

The goblin paused for a bit, an ugly frown marring his face. "Roughly over three and a half million pounds, give or take."

"Dear Lord-" Mrs. Granger breathed.

* * *

"Thank you for coming to see us on such short notice, Mister Finch-Fletchley. Tis a matter of great importance we mean to discuss with you. It seems that you stand to inherit the vast fortunes of the once great Most Ancient and Noble House of Goudsmid van Zevenwoude-Oosterberg."

What came out of Justin's mouth was meant to be an attempt to pronounce the entire, awfully long surname correctly but ended up sounding more like a drunk's attempt at Shakespeare.

"The family originated from the Netherlands," the goblin lamented with a shake of his head, "never bothered to change their surname, a true pity that is. Saddling us with pronouncing that horrible, dreadful thing."

Mrs. Finch-Fletchley shifted in her seat, drumming her well-manicured fingernails on the wooden armrest impatiently. "But what is it my dear Justin stands to inherit exactly? Will it help him along in this-" she gestured at the room with the floating chandelier and moving portraits of important goblins of past ages, "- _society_."

The goblin grinned, yellowing teeth causing shudders from the assorted Finch-Flechtleys in the room. "Your son would gain two seats on the Wizengamot as well as the position of Alchemy professor at Hogwarts which was sworn to Johannus Wilhelmus Goudsmid van Zevenwoude-Oosterberg three centuries ago before his untimely death. As it was a magical vow that was sworn the magic goes to you and as such the position is yours now, no matter the current professor or whether the course is offered."

"The position of a professor at Hogwarts is a very influential and respected one," the goblin stressed, "and very well-paid."

"Apart from that there is a fortune of well over one-million galleons, one ancestral manor in London as well as several houses in the Netherlands and Luxembourg."

Mr. and Mrs. Finch-Fletchley were people who merely wanted the best for their darling boy, him becoming PM had been their goal before the whole 'magic' business threw that plan in the bin. But now, hearing that their son was essentially a member of the both the peerage and the actual parliament of this new world (and apparently it also came with the added bonus of tenure), they felt that they finally had something to work with. Their darling could still become great, albeit in a different world. And just perhaps, once they had an inkling of the political climate, he could become their equivalent of the PM.

"Justin, dear," Mrs. Finch-Fletchley simpered, sharing a look with her husband that spanned seconds but conveyed an entire conversation. "Mummy and daddy think you should accept what those nice people are offering you."

* * *

Hermione Granger exited the bank with a new surname, a large fortune and the most ugly necklace ever to exist. The thing was over a century old and fashioned out of thick gold bands and even bigger sapphires. It was apparently a magical heirloom piece that could not be taken off and could only be worn by a female head of the family and had protective enchantments on it. It would also, to Mr. Granger's delight, cause intense and immediate diarrhoea in any boy not her fiancée trying to 'steal her virtue'.

* * *

Mere moments later Justin Finch-Fletchley left Gringotts with an equally new, slightly longer and remarkably unpronounceable surname. He too had a new, magical piece of jewellery. His however was a crown. An honest to God, heavy, golden, bejewelled crown. It had curves and swirls and points and knuckle-sized rubies and (thank whoever came up with that) a built-in invisibility spell that could be turned on and off at the utterance of a word. The word was, apparently, 'plebeian'. His new royal regalia also came with the ability to repel rain, meaning he'd never need an umbrella again, and would eat the head of anyone not him who would try and put it on. It would _eat their head_ , with _magically appearing teeth_.

It the best jewellery an eleven-year-old boy could wish for.

* * *

Inside Gringotts the goblins were wringing their hands together with maniacal grins on their small, greedy faces. Every once in a while one would cackle ominously at the thought of the havoc they would wreak on the poor, unsuspecting magical folks. It had taken some cunning , bribery and death-threats but their magnificent plan had been put into motion. In a decade there would be so much unrest that a quick, bloody rebellion would see them as the rightful sovereign of the magical world.

It was a good thing those confundus charms worked on important heirlooms and ancient magical artefacts. The whole plan would have failed if they hadn't.


	2. Hermione, Justin and really big houses

_**Chapter Two**_

 ** _Hermione, Justin and really big houses_**

The house they were standing in front of was, for lack of a better word, gargantuan. It was built in the Jacobean style architecture common in the seventeenth century, which was when the manor was built, according to the friendly goblins. They had told them it was 'unplottable' and that the preservation spells should have kept it in pristine condition. When asked what exactly preservation spells did they had shrugged.

"Wizards don't like dust and mould and such," one had sneered, "too lazy to get rid of it so they charm the place to stay in good condition. In this case they cast enough charms to last for over a century."

It was true, once they had ascended the stairs to the front doors (which one could ride through on horseback, they were that big) they found the inside was as perfectly clean and spotless as the outside. No mould, no dust, not even a crack in the walls or a spider web hanging from the ceiling. The house even came with a name, _Ofermede House_. With the main building came the adjacent wings, the stables ("For abraxans or the like," the goblins had said, whatever Abraxans were), the dower house and (of course) the sizeable plot of land that was too big to be simply called a 'park'.

"Well," Mr. Granger scratched his head, "I don't think inviting family would be a bother anymore. I doubt we could even round up enough distant cousins to get a quarter of the rooms filled."

Hermione beamed. "And it's all mine," she gloated, "the library dad, it was just _so big_. So many books and everything is about magic and I just can't wait to start reading. Can I go now, daddy? Please? How much more bedrooms must we look at? We're going to be living here for forever, that's plenty of time to explore."

A sigh escaped Mrs. Granger's lips. "Hermione, we're all eager to see what the library has to offer but since an obscure magical law requires you to live here, and that by definition means we have to live here too, your dad and I want to know just what we're getting into. Just because someone tells us the place is fine that doesn't mean some faraway room won't have some roach infestation or some such."

They opened the ornate door that led to what would be bedroom number fourteen and glanced around. The furniture was old but in good condition, despite most of it being (at least partially) made out of wood. The abundance of wood carvings spoke clearly of when the furniture was made.

Hermione sullenly toed the large, ornate desk that stood against the wall.

Mr. Granger raised his eyebrows at his wife who shot him a long-suffering look in return. "You go devour those books darling," she gave in, "just be down by dinnertime."

Dinnertime, she shuddered. The kitchen had been, well, ancient. While the whole 'medieval' décor was charming it was also wholly worthless when it came to the kitchen and bathrooms. No refrigerator, no modern stove or oven or even running water. Today's dinner would probably be some form of take-away from the nearest village.

* * *

To say it was disconcerting to see a mansion appear out of what once was, well, an empty street corner in the middle of London would be to say seeing some killed in front of you was 'not very nice'. But alas, Mrs. Finch-Fletchley couldn't think of a better word to describe the feeling that came to mind when the massive building suddenly sprang into existence.

The building was undoubtedly very old but in surprisingly good condition, perhaps invisibility made it immune to the steady flow of time? It was made out of white stone and the entrance was lined by Romanesque pillars holding up a balcony. The windows were large and topped with flat arches. Once inside the true splendour was even more obvious. A long entrance hall held numerous gilded rococo tables that held increasingly more impressive works of art. Small statues, empty porcelain vases. The middle of the hallway held a grand, sweeping staircase with an intricate, golden railing. There was even a silver bowl with gilded _apples_ of all things.

"The name fits," Mr. Finch-Fletchley uttered, trailing a hand along the railing's glimmering surface. "They certainly have a fondness for gold."

The reception, dining and less formal living room were all equally impressive. Period typical furniture made to meet such opulent standards that it bordered on being ridiculous. And almost everything was made out of gold. Golden frames for elaborate paintings, golden edges on the china found in the dining room cabinet. The paintings themselves even had gold as their main feature, from the cow with the golden horns to the one which was a pretty average painting of a scenery were it not for the golden mountain in the center of the painted forest. The most beautiful, but still flashy, piece, was the golden chandelier that hung from the ceiling. The _most_ ostentatious piece was the elaborate throne at the head of the dining table. Words were carved on the back of the monstrosity.

' _Hem roeckt niet wiens huys dat brant, als hi hem by de colen wermen mach_ ' was what the words spelled. They were carved into the gold, rather than written, though the words flowed in an elaborate, curly script.

Mr. and Mrs. Finch-Fletchley shared a long look. "I think it wouldn't be amiss to add another language to our repertoire, or at the very least have someone over to translate everything. It simply won't do to live in a house filled with things we can't even pronounce, let alone understand."

Their tour of the building, aided by the ancient floorplans those odd goblins had provided when asked, took them quite a while. They found over a dozen bedrooms scattered over the four floors, as well as three separate libraries and an additional seven living rooms of various sizes. The most crazy things they found in those had to be the stuffed monkey whose furry fingers were adorned with dozens of thick, golden rings, the massive fireplace made out of (what else could it be) gold and the cabinet in one of the less formal dining rooms that held a dozen of elaborate golden set of cutlery. The funny thing was that, no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't get the doors of the cabinet to open.

Second to none was, however, the completely golden room. Every single surface had been coated with it, from the ceiling to the walls and even the furniture did not escape the golden madness that ran rampant in the room. What was weird however was that the moment Justin and his parents had set one foot inside they found that they couldn't speak.

"…" Mrs. Finch-Fletchley had tried, cheeks flushing and hands starting to wave madly once she realise she couldn't utter a single word. "…!"

Justin had clapped his hands but that too produced not a sound.

"Wicked," he'd manage to say the moment he crossed the threshold back out of the room and into the hallway. "We've got to get grandma inside that room and pretend that everything's fine. It would drive her up the wall in no time."

Mrs. Finch-Fletchley whacked her son on his head, gently though, and clacked her tongue disapprovingly. Mr. Finch-Fletchley however stroked his thin thoughtfully. He never did like his omnipresent mother-in-law.

* * *

"Dad," Hermione's voice as sweet as the candy her parent's didn't let her eat and her face was the very definition of angelic grace. It immediately made Mr. Granger wary. He knew and loved his daughter but he had learned to dread her when she used this voice.

"Yes, darling?" He answered back after folding his (magical, with _moving pictures_ ) newspaper, fearing what she was about to say.

His darling daughter edged closer to his comfortable armchair, a true pinnacle of whatever magic thing was done to it because no matter the temperature the chair was always warm and cosy.

"Well," she began. "We have a lot of stables and a pasture and I did some research in the library and did you know that there are flying horses? They even have breeds, but that's not important now. I studied them and I _really_ want an Granian. Some people say that they are more stable than the native Aethonan and they are the fastest breed there is. According to _Hazardous Horses and How to Handle Them_ they are by far the easiest to take care of, and horseback riding is a very dignified pursuit in the Magical World. _Proper Pureblood Pastimes_ has four chapters dedicated to its virtues, dad, _four chapters_. Can we get one? Please, daddy?"

Mr. Granger pinched the bridge of his nose. If a world-weary sigh escaped his lips, well, that was purely coincidental and had nothing to do with his precocious daughter. He kept one ear tuned to his little girl's long-winding discussion on a Granian's aerial stability compared to other breeds and how she would take really, _really_ good care of it.

His daughter had never shown an ounce of interest in ponies before, but now that they were 'magical, flying ponies', well, no girl would stand a chance.

"Go ask your mum."

* * *

If there was one thing Mr. Finch-Fletchley had to name as his biggest flaw it was his and his wife's tendency to spoil their son. It was hard not too, with the both of them having such well-paying jobs it made what would normally be outrageous requests into only mildly expensive ones. Both him and his wife had grown up with well-to-do, but strict parents. It had been confusing when they had been told 'no' when they knew their parents could easily afford whatever it is they wanted.

They didn't want Justin to feel such odd, conflicting feelings and so it was that they usually gave in quite easily. Perhaps it was guilt, perhaps it was some odd, psychological form of revenge towards their own parents. They didn't know, but in the end it only meant Justin usually got whatever he wanted (within reason, his request of a boat had of course not been one they'd granted).

It didn't mean that Mr. Finch-Fletchley was at all immune to the steadily rising dread that his son's sparkling eyes and innocent smile seemed to summon. It felt as if spider's were crawling up his back and some faraway sniper had him in his crosshairs, ready to pull the trigger if he denied whatever request his son brought to him.

Because Justin when told no? A horror.

He'd prefer the sniper, truth be told.

"Dad." The monster inhabiting his darling son's skin said slowly, smiling all the while. "Look at what I found."

His son-turned-evil-mastermind handed him one of those peculiar moving pictures magic folks seemed to have. What was on the picture made his heart stop for one dreadfully long second. When his most vital muscle regained its steady rhythm an equally wicked grin began to form on Mr. Finch-Fletchley's own lips, mirroring his son's.

"Let's go ask your mum, son." He said after clapping his son on the back. What a great lad he'd raised, such a marvellous boy.

 _Flying motorcycles_. Now that was an entirely sensible request. What was magic a wonder, being able to combine the two best things in the world into one awe-inspiring machine. Flying motorcycles, come hell or high water, he was going to get one of those.

* * *

 **Kudos to whoever finds all the sayings I've hidden in the Finch-Fletchley's house-tour part. Some are Dutch, some translate to English as well.**


	3. Interlude: Albus, Lucius and Ollivander

_**Chapter three**_

 _ **Interulde: Albus, Lucius and Ollivander**_

Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, regarded the letter in his hands with bemused curiosity. It would be quite an amusing situation were it not for the complete bewilderment that drowned out all other emotions.

The letter was addressed to him, as the headmaster which was a delightful break from all the missives he got requiring his help in more political matters, and went on to cheerfully tell him how he now had an addition to his staff. An eleven-year old addition who, according to the words written on the parchment, was to fill the position of Alchemy professor starting come term. Alchemy, a course that had not been offered at Hogwarts for over five decades.

It was signed by M. I. Serly & P. E. Nurious, notorious attorneys in the more affluent circles. They were renowned for either winning their cases or causing their opponents to vanish. They were like sharks, usually handling cases that would net them and their clients mountains of gold. He had dealt with them from some distance in the past, so he knew a bit, but _Lord Goudsmid van Zevenwoude-Oosterberg_ was someone Albus had never heard of before. It was probably a relative of the mentioned boy-professor, he reasoned, or some family-friend or overall good Samaritan.

Not that it mattered, of course, it was presumptuous to think that some centuries-old vow could make him give an eleven-year-old tenure. He cracked a grin and threw the letter in the air, letting it dissolve into colourful sparkles with a wave of his wand.

* * *

"A Nimbus two-thousand, you have good taste." Lucius Malfoy commented, regarding the man standing in line in front of him. He was dressed a bit like a muggle, he supposed, he could have been mistaken for one were it not for the broomstick in his hands.

"Ah, yes." the man shrugged with one shoulder. "My daughter recently bullied me and my wife into buying her a Grenian and it's such a chore getting dear Willoughby back in from the pasture when he decides not to be a nice horse and get in his bloody stable himself. So we've been recommended buying one of these little things, it should keep up with the blasted beast and spare my girl hours of standing in the mud and crying while her horse flies circles around her."

A few things from the man's words immediately made Lucius stand up straighter and smirk just a bit more aristocratically. The man had to be magical to have a daughter with a Grenian, and rich as well to buy not only a Grenian but also to 'buy one of those little things', the little things in question being the newest, top-of-the-line brooms that cost quite a tidy sum of galleons. So the man had to be pureblood, maybe not Sacred Twenty-Eight but rich and pure, which was all that mattered in most cases.

"Lucius Malfoy," he stuck out his hand and laid the charm on thick.

The man smiled and they shook hands. "John Granger."

Both names were bland and unfamiliar, but _Potter_ and _Black_ were quite boring names as well and yet they belonged to what had once been the most prominent families of all. With that in mind he made sure to look as dignified as ever and not let his disappointment show.

"Charmed. Pray tell, are you new to the community? Small as it is we tend to know one-another and I've never seen you before." Lucius smiled guilelessly.

John Granger scratched the back of his head with a bit of an awkward tilt to his lips. "I suppose it shows, doesn't it? But yes, we've only recently moved and we're still a bit busy getting our things in order here. It is quite a change."

Ah, mystery solved. They had just moved here from the continent, which, admittedly, would be quite a change. The backwards way they went about things across the Channel was truly incomprehensible. The only good thing they had was their more progressive view of the less cuddly kinds of magic.

He kept the victorious grin that threatened to emerge at bay and instead kept his kind mask on. "If you ever have a need of a helping hand or a bit of advice I beg you, please don't hesitate to ask. I have acquaintances who went through the same change and they later said that the help was vital in getting them back on their feet. Some of the differences in culture and, of course, the political climate are quite vast."

The look on his newest pawn's face said more than words ever could, he had fallen for his honeyed words without as much as a token struggle if his grateful expression was anything to go by.

"Oh Lord, yes _please_. We've just moved into this massive estate that my wife and I know almost nothing about and my daughter keeps popping out of every corner with some new obscure way to remove one's spleen and how to make it rain on Thursdays with only pickled brains and monkey tails and I fear I'm going crazy. My wife isn't helping much because she's off bullying the workmen into getting her kitchen in order and trying to find a way for our car to work on the property without the electronics frying themselves."

Cars, he thought distastefully, they had to be one of these progressive continental wizards with an unhealthy fascination with muggle 'technology'. He'd train that out of him, once the poor chap had a good look at how proper pureblood society was run here he'd be getting rid of his electronics faster than one could cast the vanishing spell themselves.

So Lucius smiled kindly and nodded in faux-understanding while his victim talked about too big houses, annoying flying horses and _suddenly inheriting millions, who suddenly inherits millions_?

* * *

Garrick Ollivander prided himself on his ability to match young witches and wizards to wands that would suit them the most, no matter the consequences. He had handed young Tom Riddle the wand that would turn him great. Evil, but great nevertheless. Had he given him one of inferior suitability the world would have been a different place. But he hadn't and the world was as it was. For him life went on as it did. Crafting wood and turning them into the greatest magical tools known to wizardingkind. The smile on the children's faces when they found their match was _magical_ , it was the reason he went about his job with such steadfast diligence.

Young Lord Goudsmid van Zevenwoude-Oosterberg, as his parents had gleefully informed him their son was to be called, was a tad bit more difficult. He had tried elm, which always went well with proud, aristocratic people. He tried cedar after, the wood being known for often choosing people whose ambitions would carry them far. When both hornbeam and black walnut failed to get good matches Garrick only grew more enthusiastic.

"A challenge, are you? No worries lad, I've never had to turn away a customer before. Here we go, yew and unicorn hair, twelve inches. It should be-"

The windows exploded before he could as much as utter the remainder of his sentence. He clapped in his hands, grinning broadly. This boy was a marvel, a true marvel.

"No no no, no yew at all. I fear it's a tad bit too heroic for you, let's go with cherry and try the unicorn hair again-"

His windows exploded quite a few times more. He also had his counter set on fire, all the boxes with wands stacked on the shelves clattering to the floor and (which he decided was the most memorable) witnessed a wand actually fleeing from the boy's grip, _levitating itself_ back into its box.

"Let's deviate a bit from the more common cores, I think you might just be the kind of person who could pull off a wand with the toenail of a troll that recently walked through vampire remains."

The boy's parents protested vehemently to that idea, as did the young lord himself, which Garrick thought was a true shame. The last person who ended up with such a wand had become the youngest duelling champion of the world and had eventually successfully crafter a philosopher's stone with which he was currently enjoying his near-endless life with his wife.

It took another two hours to get little Lord Goudsmid van Zevenwoude-Oosterberg fitted with a wand that would have him. In the end he left the shop carrying a ridiculously rigid, eleven-inch spruce wand with a core made of a few feathers from a cockatrice. He watched the boy go with a thoughtful gaze. The last known person to wield a cockatrice wand had been .. well .. it did him little good to think of what the future might hold for the child. Cockatrice wand or not, it was the combination with spruce he had to worry about.

Garrick rubbed his chin, staring sightlessly at the alley through his storefront. He dearly hoped the boy would not end up causing the kind of chaos he feared he could, if so he should perhaps retire a few years early and find himself some faraway island to hide out at.

 _Cockatrice_ , he shook his head mournfully. Nothing good ever came from a cockatrice wand.

* * *

 **Needless to say, Lucius has things all wrong. Mr. Granger is and forever will be a muggle.**


End file.
